Denial
by Quiet Time
Summary: John Watson makes a final visit to 221B on the advice of his therapist.  Post-Reichenbach.
1. Chapter 1

_My first venture into the amazing world of Sherlock. Hope it's acceptable._

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><p>The hinges ought to have creaked. There should have been spider-webs, at the very least.<p>

Rationally, John knew that Mrs Hudson had kept the place up, but still, 221B had no right to look as though they'd just popped out for Chinese.

And even with that, he still damn near lost it all over again because the kitchen table was clear of experiments, and for the first time ever John didn't want to open the fridge in case there _weren't_ any severed body parts inside. Which, damn his own eyes, he ought to have had the decency to clear out himself, instead of leaving it to poor Mrs Hudson. Poor Mrs Hudson who wanted her boys back so badly, even just one of them would do, even if he was quite possibly more of a ghost of himself than the one who was officially…supposedly…..damn it, it was hard to even think the word.

John still didn't open the fridge. No point. He didn't expect to be here long enough to need a cup of tea, even if he'd brought milk.

Mrs Hudson had texted him to say she'd made the bed in his room ready, but John had no intentions of staying. Too likely to wake up in the morning believing it'd all be a dream, then God knew what would happen when reality hit again.

John's therapist claimed he was stuck in denial. Too right he was, and had no intentions of getting unstuck, not yet, regardless of what the tasteful engraving on the headstone said. Bloody Sherlock Bloody Holmes had no bloody right to have shuffled off the mortal coil. Not yet. Not ever. The world needed him, whether it knew it or not.

_John_ needed him. He needed his friend back, and the life he'd loved however much he bitched about it. The blasted leg ached all the time now, but he was damned if he'd go back to using a cane. John got his adrenaline hit from the occasional stint in A & E nowadays, only they hadn't called for a while, and he didn't really think they would. Not after that last time, when he told a supposed mugging victim that if pain was her thing she really ought to get her husband to agree on a safe-word first. Good advice, and he stood by it, only it hadn't _been _the husband, and it w_as _her husband sitting beside her when John opened his mouth. Sherlock would've known. Not that he'd have done anything to spare John the embarrassment. Probably would have laughed his aristocratic face off.

John sank into his armchair, letting his eyes drift shut, telling himself quite firmly not to hope the other chair wouldn't be empty when they opened. He sighed heavily, at himself, at the whole, empty world. The therapist thought it might help if he came back to the flat, saw it empty,_ felt_ it empty.

She was wrong. Sherlock's presence lingered here, in the very walls he'd shot holes in. Here, in the place they'd both called home, where floorboards still creaked beneath the memory of feet pacing restlessly across too small a space while the mind above them whirred. Any second now the door would slam open in a swirl of scarf and coat and lanky limbs, with mercury eyes alight and incomprehensible demands streaming from his lips, and John would come back to life, too. Yeah, right. The eyes behind his lids stung.

John groaned into the steeple of his hands. "Damn you Sherlock Holmes," he muttered. "Stop this. Stop it right now. I absolutely bloody forbid you to be dead."

The creaking of leather was more than a memory. The laugh was more than an echo. And the voice…the voice…..

"Well, since you asked so nicely."

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><p><em>Thank you for reading. There is more, if anyone's interested...<em>


	2. Chapter 2

_Second chapter, especially for all of you who were gracious enough to respond to the first one, with thanks._

John groaned into his hands again, grounding himself in the reality of his breath against his palms. "That's it, then. I really am going mad."

"Which presumes you weren't already," the voice argued, followed by a sigh that John was amazed he remembered clearly enough for his imagination to reproduce with such accuracy. "But, really John, if you'd just open your eyes."

"Grieving people often hear voices," John reassured himself. Aloud, hoping his own voice would drown out the other, which obviously existed only in his imagination, because he was afraid to believe anything else. "Quite a normal phenomenon. But I'm not going to be seeing things as well. I'm just not. I'd have to section myself."

He'd remembered that exasperated huff, too. Usually accompanied by the word 'idiot'.

"Don't be more of an idiot than you must, John." A-huh, there it was, just as he remembered.

"Open your eyes, John. _Look_ at me."

Oh, that voice. That tone. The one he'd always obeyed, frequently against his better judgement. John's eyes opened obediently, reluctantly, lids scraping the tender orbs beneath as though someone had forgotten to oil the hinges. A foolish fancy. Eyes couldn't really be wept dry, though he'd certainly tested the myth these past months.

John blinked furiously, but the image didn't waver. There _was_ something in the chair. Some_one_. Sitting in _his_ chair, laughing with everything except his mouth, was….

"Sher….no. You can't be." John shut his eyes tightly. Opened them again. Still there. "Can you?"

"Yes, actually, I can. I am." Sherlock – or his ghost, and if anyone was stubborn enough to cross back from the beyond, it'd be Sherlock Holmes, wouldn't it? – looked inordinately pleased with himself.

"Ah, I see you doubt your own eyes, John. Your ears too, obviously. Doubting your own senses, though after Baskerville, I don't suppose I can blame you for that. But really John, what_ is _it going to take?"

The image in the chair hmmmed in thought, just as Sherlock used to, pointed chin resting on steepled fingers. John would've congratulated his mind on producing such a detailed hallucination if he wasn't so busy questioning its sanity.

"I don't suppose," it, he, oh damn it, _He_ said slowly, "I'd achieve much by asking you to smell me, not with all the latent scents in the flat, so that leaves…ah, _touch._"

John gulped. Not a gentlemanly swallow. A gulp.

The quicksilver eyes fixed on John with purposeful intent, a twinkle growing from their depths. "I could pinch you, perhaps, that sovereign if whimsical method of determining whether one is dreaming?"

The image swooped towards him, and John had a second to think, _that sod's been smoking again, _before something clamped briefly on the flesh just above his elbow.

It hurt. It actually hurt. Quite a bit in fact. Those strong, bony fingers, of course. But then, John already knew he was susceptible to psychosomatic pain, so, no, not conclusive. But still, worth checking, even if just to reassure himself that it was, after all, just his imagination. Lack of sleep, maybe that extra glass of wine last night. Such a mistake, basically enabling Harry, really, he should've known better.

John rolled up his sleeve with a hand suddenly trembling, taking care not to inadvertently bruise his own flesh, and saw with a sense of growing wonder two reddening, finger-shaped spots on his upper arm.

"Just like the leg," he told himself, out loud, eyes fixed on the marks, daring them to fade. "Or stigmata. Well-know religious phenomenon. And I've been ranting on about believing in him, so there it is. I've started a cult. Me, myself, and my hallucinatory Holmes."

The voice rose over his ranting, impatient now, quite possibly anxious, even. "John, stop this. It's me. It's really me. A living, breathing, corporeal, non-hallucinatory version of the person you were foolish enough to trust before. Trust me now, John. Trust yourself. Trust your instincts. You _knew_ I wasn't dead, and here I am, proving you right."

Finally, finally, John forced himself to look back at the chair, bracing himself to see nothing. It…he…_Sherlock_…was sitting bolt upright, if not leaning slightly towards John. Starlight eyes intent. Right there. Close enough to touch.

"Go ahead," Sherlock's voice teased, using Sherlock's mouth to speak through. "Go ahead, John. Touch me."

John surged to his feet. Sherlock rose with him, gangly limbs unfolding like amateur origami, head thrown back, that wonderful, infectious, manic laughter echoing back from walls that rang with his presence, rejoiced in his return.

John touched him alright. With his fist. On that very same spot on the jaw.

What else could you expect from a soldier faced with the return of a deserter?

Though apparently it still wasn't in him to damage the nose.

He missed the teeth too.

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><p><em>Thank you for reading. I suspect there will be one more chapter.<em>


	3. Chapter 3

_Apologies for the delay. I had a chapter all ready to post, then decided it wasn't good enough and deleted my little heart out. I think this is now good enough to offer to those of you who have been (will be?) gracious enough to read and/or comment, and I hope you agree._

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><p>Sherlock staggered beneath the force of the blow, and found himself sprawled in his armchair before he'd quite had the opportunity to process the pain bursting from his upper jaw. There might be a grain of comfort in the fact that he hadn't landed on the nearest soft surface by accident. John was quite capable of knocking him to floor, indeed, right into the coals glowing in the fireplace, had he been so inclined.<p>

Sherlock squinted up at John – unusual, that, looking _up_ at John – and through the pain-induced tears clouding his vision he could almost fancy he saw the spirit within that compact frame struggling to escape its inadequate physical boundaries.

John stood before him, face blank as such an expressive face could be, legs squared, weight on the balls of his feet, fists still clenched, having not indulged in even so slight a show of weakness as to shake the sting from his hand. Challenging. Defiant. Belligerent. A fighter's stance. A soldier's stance. Bittersweet to witness directed _at_ Sherlock rather than _for_ him. But still, if the essence of John Watson could be distilled into a single image, there it stood. Sherlock attempted, unsuccessfully, to conceal a smile.

John's lips thinned in response. Sherlock prudently decided to remain seated until the brewing tempest either burst over his head or receded, using the interval to test his jaw gingerly with one hand, wincing as he went. He was pleasantly surprised not to detect a break, disturbed to notice traces of blood on his index finger as he drew the hand away, and faintly disappointed at John's complete lack of inclination to perform the inspection for himself. He'd borne the soldier's reaction, was it so unfair to expect the doctor's response to follow?

A fist to the face was hardly the appropriate reaction to having one's friend return from the dead, surely? His _best _friend, according to the blog, likely a necessary distinction when you had more than one friend to your credit, as John did. Sherlock had been prepared for the initial disbelief, but once that was cleared up he'd anticipated – dare he say hoped for – something more positive. A hug, he'd thought, might not have been totally out of the question.

But then, John never behaved exactly as one would predict; which was precisely why Sherlock considered him quite possibly the least boring person he'd ever met. In spite of those cardigans.

"Did you need to hit quite so hard just to confirm my existence, or was it for the fun of it?" Sherlock asked, trying the smile again, regardless of the answering twinge from his abused jaw. The bruising was stiffening up already, given the lack of the ice pack John would usually have applied by now.

"Fun," John answered promptly. "Yeah, it_ was_ fun, listening to the little voices in my head."

Sherlock blinked. "Ah yes. I recall, that unflattering subliminal which encourages you to punch me in the face. I think I'd have preferred if you hadn't listened quite so hard."

John shrugged. "Thought I might as well, since I was half convinced I was going barmy anyway."

There was, Sherlock noted hopefully, the barest trace of a twinkle in those chameleon eyes.

"You don't have to be quite so proud of it," he grumbled, donning a pout in place of the smile. Irritation was his customary manner of showing relief, after all. Besides, it hurt less, and his lips were better suited to pouting in any case.

John slumped into his own chair and sucked at his torn knuckles. Sherlock fidgeted.

"Did it serve the purpose at least?" Sherlock prompted, breaking a silence which had never been so uncomfortable between them before. "Are you convinced I'm alive, now?"

"So it would seem," John conceded, pondering the damage to his fist. "The bruises I can explain away, but I can't recall any cases of psychosomatic lacerations."

"About time," Sherlock huffed. "Seriously, John. A bit of consistency if you don't mind. First you're in denial about my death, then I show myself and you're trying to deny my existence. I can hardly keep up."

John regarded him across a space which shouldn't have felt quite so vast. They'd bumped elbows or knees while reading newspapers in these blessed chairs, yet Sherlock was absurdly convinced he could reach across to the full extent of his generous length of arm yet still not bridge the gap between them.

"So, you're alive again," John said thoughtfully. "Or, no, not again. Still, I should say. You weren't dead. You faked it all. The fall. The….the grave. You're alive."

"I wasn't, I did, and I am," Sherlock agreed, resisting the impulse to bounce on his toes. It was going to be fine, of course it was. John had just taken time to process everything before he spoke, a highly sensible course of action, especially given that initial spate of violence.

But John was talking now, which meant soon he'd be smiling, and Sherlock's insides could settle themselves back into their correct positions instead of churning about in this unruly manner. It wouldn't be long before they were past this unpleasant interlude, Sherlock decided with confidence. John would proffer a few insults, Sherlock would counter with his usual bland sarcasm, they'd end with laughter, and who knew, maybe even that hug.

"I was just in hiding," Sherlock explained. "And now, as you can see, I'm back. Everything can return to normal." He smiled expectantly, ignoring the ache his jaw.

Normal didn't seem quite so boring anymore, Sherlock thought, as a bead of contentment flickered deep within. Normal was consuming food pressed on him by John or Mrs Hudson, watching crap telly and complaining about it for John's benefit. Normal meant sleeping – under protest of course - in his own bed on sheets scented with Mrs Hudson's detergent while John's snoring drifted comfortingly through the gaps in the floorboards. Normal was all of the unimportant things he'd scorned, all of which he'd yearned for in exile.

Food in particular would be quite welcome right now. Sherlock thought he might even extend himself to a glass of wine, tonight. Angelo's would be appropriate. They ought to celebrate his resurrection, not to mention their well overdue reunion.

John blinked at him, as he'd customarily done first thing in the morning, groping past Petri dishes for his teacup and swearing when he found something in it furrier than tea. The bead of content glowed, grew, warming Sherlock in a way the fireplace couldn't match.

"Back to normal," John repeated. "Just like that, huh? Easy as that. You and your faithful blogger, back out on the streets."

"Well, yes of course." Sherlock frowned. John had a point, actually. "Well, once you've helped me sort all the annoying red tape," he amended. "I might not have convinced _you_, perceptive soul that you are, but my legal status is quite unsatisfactory at the moment."

Legally dead, yes, that might cause a few issues. Probably best he didn't go wandering about until it was sorted. Not Angelo's then, but they might phone for Chinese, as long as John took the delivery. John would have to pay, too. Sherlock had used his last bit of cash on the taxi here, and his credit cards were all cancelled. It was probably not a good idea to ask John to buy that wine as well, not with him frowning like that. Perhaps the celebration would have to wait until Sherlock was financially alive again.

Until John was in the mood for celebration. Because John wasn't smiling. John had stopped talking. John was back to inspecting his knuckles. He still hadn't offered Sherlock anything to put on the bruise which was no doubting blooming on his jaw. Sherlock prodded his face again, and winced. Typical. He could emerge unmarked after diving off a roof, but five minutes with John Watson and he'd be black and blue by morning. And purple. How quaint. His face would match his clothes, assuming Mrs Hudson hadn't thrown them all out already.

Sherlock looked impatiently at the man sitting lost in thought across from him. Where was the joy, the gathering tears Sherlock could graciously pretend to ignore? Where, in fact, was the hug? He _deserved_ a hug. Mrs Hudson would hug him, he was sure, when she'd finished the inevitable shrieking about seeing a ghost.

Actually, he'd been counting on John to smooth all that over, too. Maybe he'd counted on John for too much?

"Y'know what, Sherlock? Since you _are_ alive, after all."

Sherlock looked up expectantly, though he couldn't have said anymore exactly what he was expecting.

"You can drop dead," John concluded, heaving himself up from his armchair. "Rack off to wherever you've been, and find someone else idiot enough to let you experiment on them. I'm done."

Before Sherlock could quite react, the doctor was on his feet, limping – Gods, limping! – towards the door onto Baker street, and Sherlock was quite suddenly, irrationally, fearfully, convinced that if he let him leave, he'd never see John Watson again.

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><p><em>Of course I won't leave it there, but it didn't seem feasible to them to fall on each others' necks right after the fisticuffs. <em>

_Thank you for reading. _


	4. Chapter 4

_Thank you to everyone's who has taken the time to read, to favorite, to alert, and especially those who've favored me with your opinion on my scribbles. Onward…then. (Freudian slips mostly intended, btw)_

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><p>"John!"<p>

As it always did, as it always had, the sound of Sherlock's voice froze John midstride, leaving him cursing under his breath as his foot lost momentum, drifting to the floor courtesy of gravity rather than intent. Curses continued to roll off his tongue, those colorful military curses he'd not thought of for months. That he hadn't had the use for – the _life _for.

Oh, he was clever, Holmes. Because it wasn't _that _voice, this time. Sherlock Bloody-Insufferably-Arrogant Holmes knew that if he'd used_ that_ voice again, the authoritative tone which probably spoke directly to John's latent militaristic instincts or some such high-minded blather, then John would by now be hailing a taxi.

Sherlock obviously not only knew it, but was using it. The puppet-master putting his hand to John's strings again, just because he could. Damn him, damn him, damn him to the hell he'd consigned John to all these months.

John breathed heavily, in through the nose, out through the mouth, and ordered himself to get on with it, to get on with his life, and leave the dead to go rebury himself. And still he couldn't move, not so much as a the twitch of a toe.

Behind him, floorboards creaked. "John?" No, not _that_ voice, the other one. That particular tone John had only heard Sherlock use once in all the time he'd known him. The last time he'd heard Sherlock speak – before tonight.

There were tears behind the voice, just as there'd been on the phone, as Sherlock delivered his suicide note. The day another part of John's soul died. The day he watched, pleaded, screamed, helpless to help as his best friend plummeted to the earth with his coat flapping like broken wings. John had believed at the time that they were real tears, not the facsimiles Sherlock produced with such ease for the manipulations of witnesses, and it had been an obscure comfort. But now, now he just didn't know any more. If the death wasn't real, maybe none of it was. And if it wasn't real _then_, it wasn't real _now_. It was all a game, and John nothing more than a discarded toy retrieved from its dusty corner in case it might prove useful again.

"John?" Step, creak. "Don't go, John. Not yet." Another step, another creak. Sherlock had to be right behind him now. John's hands had curled into fists again, and it took all his determination to keep them at his sides when he wanted nothing more to pound the wall, no, to turn and pound Sherlock _into_ the wall.

John rotated slowly, keeping his weight on his heels, ready to launch, though he knew not in which direction, nor for what purpose. Sherlock stood before him, all arms and legs, cheekbones and curls, just an arm's length away. One of John's arms, not his. Hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, swaying on his toes, as close to stillness as the excess of energy bound in that wiry frame could allow. Waiting. Passive. Clever. Because if he'd grabbed, if he'd tried to physically stop John from leaving, if he'd even kept arguing his own case, John would have found the strength to rip himself away and never come back. Sherlock knew all that, too, manipulative sod that he was.

"Let me explain, first," Sherlock said quietly.

"Few months too late," John muttered.

"I can explain that, too," Sherlock countered.

"I've no doubt you can," John finally met the steely eyes. "But will it be the truth, Sherlock? Or another pack of lies?" He shook his head fiercely. "I'd never have believed you lied, not to me. But I was wrong, wasn't I?"

Sherlock flinched. He'd seen John angry at him many times and it hadn't bothered him overmuch. He might even have taken guilty pleasure in his ability to rile the other man so completely. But this – this he couldn't abide. Disappointment. Disillusion. No.

Sherlock's voice sharpened, honed by an emotion he would neither admit to nor name.

"You _must_ listen, John. Leave after, if you choose, and I'll not make a move to stop you, but your decision must be based on fact, not whatever's going on in that mind of yours."

Well that was an improvement, John through ironically. At least he hadn't said 'little mind'.

"_Must_," John repeated, letting his voice rise as it would, letting the incredulity through, holding the rage in abeyance. "You don't get to tell me what I 'must' do anymore, Sherlock, not since you told me to stay still while you threw yourself off a roof."

Sherlock inclined his head in acknowledgement, eyes hooded. Processing. Eliminating. "You _want _to give me a chance to explain," he amended eventually. "And I want to…I need to…Please, John."

John sighed. Sherlock used 'please' as a child did, as the tool so valued by parents, the open sesame which would grant any wish. But this….this was different. It was _real_. Sherlock could produce fake tears on demand, fake anger, fake grief, fake happiness for all John knew, but pleading? No. Sherlock was too arrogant to assume he'd ever need to descend to_ that_ to achieve his desires. So he wouldn't have wasted his precious time mastering it. So this…the tremor in his voice, the tears behind it, this was real.

Twisted logic, worthy of Sherlock himself, but it pierced the web of manipulation John had imagined woven around himself, and as it unraveled before his eyes John saw more than he wanted to. Saw the invinceable vulnerable, the unbreakable broken and refusing to admit it. And he knew, and surely Sherlock did too, that he could no more turn away now than he could grow wings and fly back to catch Sherlock as he fell.

"I punched you," John said wearily. "I told you to go back to wherever the hell you've been. I am at this very moment in the process of storming off….and damned if I_ can_ leave before finding out how you can possibly translate all that into me _wanting_ to hear you out."

Sherlock saw something change, though physically John had hardly twitched a muscle. There was an odd feeling in his chest, his stomach, as though something fluttered within. These, perhaps, were the butterflies beloved of Molly and her ilk. Regardless, Sherlock tamped it down firmly, cast a net about them if you like, lifting himself above the chaos of emotion into the purity of reason by sheer force of will. He must be calm. He must be controlled. He must be correct. He couldn't afford a mistake. This was so very much different to the usual deducing. It wasn't someone else's life hanging on this deduction. It was his, and John's, and he'd slowly come to recognize which meant more to him over recent months.

"You could have used any other method of contact, yet you chose to punch me, a decent one too, hard enough to draw blood. So you're angry, of course you're angry," Sherlock began, in the usual rapid-fire of words, because if he could at least _behave_ as though this was just another deduction, all might yet be well. "But not as angry as you'd have us both believe." He raised a single finger as John opened his mouth to respond.

"Now John, we both know you could have knocked me unconscious if you'd liked, but you chose not to. You're angry, you wanted to hurt me, yes, and I dare say I deserve it. You did, however, refrain from using sufficient force to fracture the underlying bone, which implies reluctance to cause any lasting damage, let alone permanent. So you've still some residual regard for me. At least enough to give me a fair hearing." He paused. Swallowed. "Am I wrong?"

John frowned up into Sherlock's face. "Could be the Hippocratic Oath," he muttered. "Do no harm, and all that."

"Someday, I'd love to hear how you manage to reconcile that with soldiering," Sherlock parried, allowing himself a lightning-flicker of a smile before sobering again. "And it might well be exactly that, except you then told me to _rack off_. "

"To little or no effect," John muttered.

Sherlock bounced on his toes, just once, just a tiny spring, before he remembered this wasn't a light moment after all. "But you never say 'rack off', John," he persisted urgently. "You've a very colorful vocabulary, but never once in all the time I've known you have you used that particular phrase. You weren't intending to say it this time, either. You had another on the tip of your tongue."

John swallowed heavily. Yeah, he had. But he couldn't say that to Sherlock, not ever, not since…

"You remembered, didn't you?" Sherlock said softly. "In the taxi, the first day we met."

John flicked his eyes away, seeing the past, hearing the past. "Yeah," he admitted. _What do people usually say? Piss off._

"And if you had, John, if you'd said that, as other people do…I'd have known what it meant. I'd have gone, back to…to where I've been. So…." Sherlock paused for another breath. He wondered briefly whether a conclusion had ever been quite so important before. It was becoming quite difficult to speak, because, well, if it didn't work…..but it had to, that's all there was to it. Sherlock marshaled his considerable wits, firmed his abominably unsteady voice, and continued. "You don't really want me to leave. You want to give me chance to fix" he waved an arm between them, careful not to make contact. "This…and….and" His voiced hadn't firmed at all, blast it, and didn't look to be doing so any time in the near future. "And I want that chance, John, so very much."

John nodded, sighed, let his shoulders slump, felt his fists unclench. "Guess I'm just not other people," he agreed. His eyes refocused on Sherlock's face, and Sherlock could've laughed aloud as he watched, entranced, while the John he knew rewrote itself over the face of the distant, alien being who'd punched him and turned away.

"And I didn't hit you _that _hard, you big wimp." John reached up, through the small yet significant space between them, and whatever Sherlock might have intended to say froze on his tongue as John's hand cupped his jaw. His eyes opened wide in surprise, then fluttered shut, throat jerking as he swallowed against the sudden dryness while a calloused thumb traced a path along his jawbone.

He ignored the impulse to pull away. Ignored it quite firmly. An odd reaction, this, when he'd not flinched from the punch. This was surely far less alarming, to have John's hand exploring the spot recently vacated by his fist. John's hand. A friend's hand, a _doctor's _hand, likely with the intent of checking for damage as Sherlock had himself, the very inspection which had offended by its absence. Therefore, quite possibly the least threatening touch in existence.

Only it didn't feel quite that way. Not soothing. Not soothing at all. He'd have to consider why, later. When John was asleep, perhaps. There was no point in John going back to wherever he'd found a bed anymore. He was home now. They both were. That unaccustomed sense of contentment bloomed afresh in Sherlock's gut at the thought. Home. This was home. After a lifetime of being the veritable square peg, this was where he fitted. Here, in this flat, upright in his armchair or sprawled on the sofa, with John blogging across from him and reminding him to buy milk.

The sudden chill as John's hand left his face jerked Sherlock from his pleasant daze. His eyes unstuck themselves, following the hand waving before them.

"I did_ not_ break the skin," John announced, "That was _my_ blood on your face. See? From my knuckles. Must have sliced them open on those damned cheekbones." He looked quite pleased with himself, Sherlock noted.

"Well, I did tell you I usually get something wrong," Sherlock answered, grinning in spite of the ache. John was smiling at him. Joking with him. Matters were at last progressing as they should. "Which means you're even less angry that I'd thought," he concluded, with no small spark of triumph.

"Which means I've got more control than _you_ thought," John corrected him.

Sherlock's smile faltered. A bit not good, perhaps. And he'd been trying so hard not to say the wrong thing….. This, Sherlock reflected, might be exactly how he'd made poor Molly feel so many times.

Sherlock swayed against the wall as John pushed past him, instantly ready to bounce on his toes again just because John had moved into the flat instead of out of it. Which was really rather pathetic, if he thought about it. So he didn't. And if forcing himself not to think wasn't the greatest sacrifice he could make to remain in John's good graces, then he didn't know what was.

John looked back over his shoulder. "You coming or what?" he demanded. "We'd better get something on that bruise if you want to be able to speak tomorrow."

Sherlock smiled, noting absently that it didn't hurt at all. He smiled, and followed John, and fretted not at all about who led.

There was, he reflected, yet another unaccustomed emotion welling up, which might be, just _might_ be, the very last item in the Pandora's Box he'd opened tonight.

Hope.

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><p><em>I do have 'Sherlock's explanation' plotted out, but no doubt it will become invalid as soon as the next season airs, so feel free to leave here (with my deepest thanks for reading) and decide for yourself how it ends.<em>

_Should you decide otherwise, there will be a serve of angst with a fluff topping to follow….._


	5. Chapter 5

_Hello dear people, thank you so much for reading. I promised angst. Here's angst. Oh, and beware the cliff…._

It was probably wrong, on some moral level or the other. It was definitely cowardly, and Sherlock had never before considered himself prey to that particular vice. Evidently, neither consideration would prevent him grasping at John's offer to tend his aching jaw with all the fervor of a doomed man presented with a stay of execution.

Sherlock folded himself onto the sofa and waited with uncharacteristic patience as John rummaged about in the kitchen. He watched with curiosity suspended as John extracted something from the freezer, examined it dubiously, then shrugged and wrapped it in a tea-towel before bringing both it and their sizeable first-aid kit back to the sofa with him.

Sherlock dropped his eyes to his own knees, unwilling to have John notice how closely he'd been watching him, disturbed by the intensity with which he'd been observing such a commonplace sight as John moving around his own flat.

The sofa creaked as John settled beside him. The clasp on the first-aid kit snapped open with unnatural volume. Even the tiny sound of John drawing on his latex gloves seemed to echo endlessly back from the papered walls. The man who could go for days without speaking suddenly found the silence oppressive. "John…" His voice sounded wrong. Sherlock cleared his throat and tried again. "John, I…"

John's eyes fixed on his. Honest eyes, new wrinkles around them, honest pain behind them, shielded beneath a doctor's mask, decorated by a forced smile, and whatever Sherlock might have said died unuttered on his tongue.

"Let me see to that first," John said firmly.

Sherlock ducked his head in consent, ignoring the sneaking guilt at allowing the delay. He was only following doctor's orders, after all.

His eyes followed John's hands as they sorted through the tools of his trade, laying his selections on the coffee table in his usual orderly fashion. A spectacle at once so ordinary and yet so precious that Sherlock felt his throat close around – something. It might be a sob, only he'd not done that since childhood, and had deleted the experience in any case, so he couldn't be sure. He only knew that his throat ached, that his eyes stung, that should he speak now he couldn't guarantee the steadiness of his voice, and that all of this was precisely why sentiment had always been something best avoided.

The icy bundle pressed to his face was soothing, if lumpy, providing a comfort exceeded only by the presence of John beside him on the sofa. It was must been invaluable in the battlefield, this aura of comfort and calm that exuded from Dr John Watson, he of the caring hands who inexplicably dwelt within the same physical form as Captain J Watson, the sharpshooter.

Sherlock let his eyes drift shut again. Hope was a fragile thing, he reasoned. Like a child chasing soap-bubbles, he might well burst it by catching too tight, too fast. Better to let the doctor care for him, as he'd let the soldier punch him, and after those had taken their moments, perhaps his friend would return.

The pleasant haze receded along with the icepack. Sherlock forced heavy eyelids open, to see John drawing the bundle away, laying it carefully in a dish placed there for the purpose.

"You'll have some spectacular bruising," John said, when he noticed Sherlock watching him. "I could put some arnica on it if you like."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Alternative medicine, Doctor Watson?"

"Complimentary medicine," John corrected. "But I'm sure I can find something with numbers for ingredients if you prefer."

Sherlock smiled at the easy banter, familiar and sorely missed, and waved a languid hand in blanket consent to whatever John decided. Delaying the confrontation again, but with John's collusion. Questions hung heavy in the air around them, and confessions, and explanations, but Sherlock resolved to ignore the silent pressure, to take all he could from this brief respite, and allow John the same luxury. Because John needed this too, for reasons of his own. For whatever comfort he could derive from exercising his skills, or perhaps, less nobly, the chance to exert a fraction of the control denied him for so long.

It might be a hopeful sign that John obviously wished to extend the interlude as much as Sherlock did himself. It might be ominous in that John merely wanted fulfill his medical duties so he could leave with no further obligations. It might be that there was peace here, in the eye of the hurricane, and neither could be blamed for reluctance to throw themselves on the mercy of the winds.

Sherlock allowed his head to drop back against the sofa as John applied the ointment he'd chosen, fingers stroking lightly over tender skin. A true healing touch. Soothing to the point of hypnotic. Sherlock sighed gently as his eyes once more lost the battle to remain open.

"You're left-handed," Sherlock commented lazily, just to be saying something, because the silence still wasn't as comfortable as it ought to be between them. Hope swirled around them, battling dread, overlaid by irony. He'd kept John safe through deception, and might lose him through honesty.

There was no reply, no falter in the movement of the trained hand along his cheekbone. There might have been a shrug, but Sherlock's eyes were too heavy to check.

"But you punch with your right," he continued. "I'd have thought it would be an advantage to use your left, given your targets would be unlikely to anticipate blow from that direction."

"I punch _you _with my right," John said, with a smile in his voice. "Because you're one of the few who'd not only expect it to be coming from the other direction but would stop to think about it instead of dodging."

Sherlock had no idea whether John saw him smile in return. He hoped so. It was quite a clever piece of reasoning.

There followed the tiny sounds of tubes and whatnot being stowed, the scrunch of gloves peeling away. Sherlock stretched his long limbs and almost yawned, feeling as though he'd roused from a particularly satisfying sleep. His eyes opened onto the icepack as John lifted it from the coffee table, bowl and all.

"That's not one of our usual ice packs," Sherlock noted. "In fact it's not ice at all. What is it?"

"Ears, I think," John replied. "It was all I could find in the freezer." His voice was far too casual for the subject, and he'd turned his face away to hide the grin which spoke of his joy in this petty revenge. It could, Sherlock thought resignedly, possibly fondly, have been much worse. And far less amusing. "Ears," he repeated. "Ah yes, I was observing the effects of frostbite on cartilage."

"Thankfully, there's no body parts left in the fridge," John continued, his voice rising to compensate for the fact that he was back in the kitchen. "I wanted to get them out before Mrs Hudson had to, but I guess Molly took care of that when she…."

The voice trailed off. There was a notable absence of footsteps returning to the lounge. Apparently the respite was over. Sherlock forced himself to look, ignoring the somewhat childish impulse to hide his head in a cushion so he didn't have to watch John storming away for the second time. John wasn't storming, however. He wasn't moving at all. He was, in fact, leaning against the fridge door, which might explain why the package of ears was still in its bowl on the kitchen table.

"When she came to pick up your clothes." John shook his head, sharply, as if to clear it. "For the funeral directors." The laugh that followed was so _wrong_ that every single nerve in Sherlock's body shuddered in revulsion. "And I thought it was so damned sensitive of me leaving her in your room for so long without disturbing her. Well, it could have been cowardly, but I was going with sensitive."

Sherlock hadn't noticed himself rising from the sofa, but he found himself in the kitchen, facing John across an acre of cracked linoleum, one arm half-raised in entreaty.

John waved it away, struck through by the memory of using the exact same gesture to fend off the arms grabbing for him as he struggled to approach Sherlock's bleeding body. His eyes flickered, raking Sherlock from head to toe. Assessing. Identifying. Molly had indeed spent far too long in Sherlock's bedroom that day; rifling through the boxes a weeping Mrs Hudson had filled unassisted because John could hardly bear to enter the flat, let alone step into the cluttered room that shrieked its emptiness through the closed door.

He'd noticed that Molly emerged with far too many bags to contain the one set of clothes the funeral directors would need, but it didn't seem worth querying, not with all the items in that room which she shouldn't have let out of the morgue in the first place. Apart from a vague hope that she'd collected the body parts as well, he hadn't given it a second thought. Until now.

Sherlock's arm dropped, to join the other in wrapping defensively around his own torso, drawing John's eye to the sleeves covering the arms, the shirt beneath them.

"Those _are_ your clothes," John said, while his thoughts continued to slot dully into place. He'd planned the whole thing, Sherlock had. Premeditated his own murder. Planned it to the last second, the last word. The last call. Planned and executed with a trusted ally _who wasn't John_.

"Didn't bother me before, the clothes," John continued. "I'd expect a hallucination to be wearing clothes I remembered, wouldn't I?" He remembered that shirt. He remembered that suit. One of the skinny black variety of which Sherlock owned several almost identical versions. One of which John had last seen torn and drenched with blood. Sherlock's blood. Or not. Someone's else's blood, who'd hardly have donated it with the intent for which it was used.

Sherlock winced. "I should have considered that," he agreed, burying his hands in the pockets of the trousers which were one amongst the many Molly had retrieved for him. And so he should have, instead of allowing sentiment – or vanity – to influence his appearance for his reunion with John.

John nodded slowly, almost rhythmically. "You went to Molly for help, then?"

"She offered," Sherlock agreed. "And I accepted." He swallowed heavily around that damned blockage in his throat. "She was very helpful. I….I couldn't have done it without her."

A simple admission. Simple words, cutting deep, bleeding betrayal. Sherlock felt ill, but he doubted John would minister to him this time.

John flinched. A reaction Moriarty hadn't been able to extract with a Semtex vest.

"I couldn't have done it without you, either," Sherlock said quietly.

"Because every experiment needs a control, doesn't it?" John said. His face twisted, eyes blinking rapidly. Trying to hold back tears, or more anger, though his voice held no trace of either. Only resignation. Defeat. "I should have realized. Should have known better, after Baskerville."

The knot in Sherlock's throat descended to settle in his chest. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to live. It was over, this life that had been so briefly good. He'd waited too long, let John draw his own conclusions, draw the wrong ones, as usual, and now it was too late to explain.

And as he'd earlier watched the John he knew occupy the face of the suspicious stranger he'd walked in on tonight, so he saw the process reverse. Watched John's face smooth out, every expressive line wiped clean, leaving his face empty as a blackboard when the class is done.

John laughed that horrid laugh again, the twisted,_ wrong_ laugh, the laugh that wanted to hurt.

"Tell me, Sherlock," John said harshly. "Tell me, was it a worthy experiment at least? Was it a _success_?"

The voice matched the laugh now, a thing that should never soil the mouth of a good man, and Sherlock knew, with the guilt settling on him so heavily that he might never breathe easily again, that he'd put it there. Moriarty hadn't burned the heart out of him; he'd done it to himself. And he couldn't bear to watch it smolder, not for one second longer.

"A resounding success," Sherlock replied coldly. "You're alive, aren't you?"

And then he was gone, footsteps echoing on the staircase, leaving John blinking at empty air, with only a dripping bag of ears to show he'd ever been there at all.


	6. Chapter 6

_This chapter is dedicated to MildredandBobbin, because she asked so nicely. Twice. _

_Hope you enjoy._

Sherlock paused just before the street exit, giving himself a moment to regroup. The despised substitute coat mocked him from the corner he'd dumped it in, where the angle of the door would have hidden it from John when he entered. He'd planned several experiments centering on its destruction, but they'd all have to go on hold now. He'd not been recognised so far; it would be folly to risk someone identifying him as he exited.

Sherlock sighed, snatched up the ill-tailored garment and shoved his arms into the sleeves, his face twisting with distaste at the feel of the cheap lining against his skin. Oversized, unattractive and unflattering, it had nevertheless served as a quick, effective disguise. The poor cut added the illusion of bulk to his slender frame, while the too-long hem distracted from his height. It even boasted a hood, for the concealment of his other more distinctive features.

Coat, curls, cheekbones, his most easily recognizable features. He'd cultivated a beard while in hiding, and found himself questioning the impulse which led him to remove it prior to meeting John. Good sense would have dictated that he'd at least have brought a false beard with him, perhaps a wig as well, but apparently sense had deserted him, given how supremely confident he'd been of John's welcome. Overconfident, evidently.

Sherlock inhaled heavily. He'd been so sure John would at least let him explain. He'd even have apologized, if that was what it took. He breathed out again, expelling the surge of regret along with the gust of warm breath. Without John at his side the labor involved in restoring his credibility as the worlds' only Consulting Detective seemed too much effort for too little reward.

It would have been nice, Sherlock thought wistfully, but…..no. He squared his shoulders, summoning resolve to accompany the resolute stance. It wasn't the end of the world that John had decided to excise all things Holmes from his life. It was merely the end of _this_ world. But no matter, there was another world on this planet, beneath the veneer of civilization. A world where a state of legal death was an asset rather than liability. A world into which Sherlock had dipped his exquisitely-shod toes and found the water grimy, but no less welcoming for that.

It might be Moriarty's final triumph, it might even have been the last phase of his plan, to create a space and leave it vacant for Sherlock to fill. The King of the Underworld, grooming his crown prince all this time, and the jester who longer smiled would not stand between them anymore. And there it was, Sherlock thought gloomily. There was the very thing which had driven John to the edge. The jester, the loyal fool - when he should have thought of him, should have _treated_ him, as the loyal knight who stood by his side when all the others fled to swell the ranks of his enemies.

Hindsight was a wonderful thing. Onwards, then. Or backwards. Back into the shadow world he'd inhabited all this time. At least he was assured of a welcome _there_. The stupid, stupid criminals of this world, so bad at covering their tracks, desperately needed a consultant to show them where they were going wrong. They'd appreciated his genius, respected him even as he hunted them down, while the police resented and ridiculed him while he helped them exceed their sad limitations. And now, there was nothing – all right, no-_one_ - to keep him on the side of the angels anymore.

The door to Baker Street banged shut with a finality which surely existed only in his mind. Doors were inanimate, therefore incapable of forming opinions and equally lacking in the ability to express them. Accordingly, any door-related expression of anger or frustration was…..was merely a reflection of his own. Damn.

The night breeze teased tendrils of hair from within the hood, leaving them plastered against inexplicably damp skin, framing those damnable cheekbones everyone seemed so fixated on. Sherlock raised an impatient hand and tugged roughly at the edges of the hood, drawing it forward to hide his face, wincing at the brush of knuckles over the bruising left behind by John's fist.

At least that explained the stinging in his eyes.

-XXX-

John had always prided himself on his reflexes. They'd kept him alive, kept other people alive, too. It seemed particularly unfair that they should desert him now, just when he was fresh out of reason and could really use a prod from the instinctive. Leaving him to stare – possibly open-mouthed - at the piece of air so recently electrified by the presence of one, too-frustrating-to-be-hallucinatory, Sherlock Holmes. Not dead, after all. Solidly, vibrantly alive, as testified by a set of still-stinging knuckles. Alive – and leaving, again.

Alive.

"_A resounding success. You're alive, aren't you?"_

Famous last words – also again. The man appeared to be making a habit of dramatic exits. But as the evening replayed in his mind, John acknowledged that perhaps he'd earned this one.

He had, after all, punched Sherlock in the face for not being dead. A bit not good, perhaps. Presented with the non-death of his best friend, said best friend might have anticipated a more positive reaction than a fist to the face. Not so much looking a gift horse in the mouth as knocking out one of its teeth.

Seemed like the right thing at the time. It was a least on par with a parent railing at their freshly-retrieved runaway offspring while hugging them senseless. Not that John had done the hugging part, of course, though they might well have progressed to manly back-patting at some point. Still, he _had _patched Sherlock up after. Surely that counted for something? Or it would have, if he'd not moved straight on to tearing strips off the prodigal detective.

Something twitched uneasily in John's stomach as he recalled Sherlock's expression, his stance, his complete lack of resistance as John unleashed his wrath. Not good, indeed. _Very_ not good, even. Worthy of an apology, and damn it, he'd have gotten around to one if Sherlock had hung around long enough.

Below, a stair creaked. The sound crackled from John's ear, down through his spine and back again, bringing his head up and finally getting the right message to his feet, breaking him out of stasis and into motion, a laugh bubbling in his chest and a sense of rightness flooding his veins along with the adrenaline as he leapt to follow Sherlock.

-XXX-

The door banged open again. Sherlock spun on his heel, to see John in the doorway, hands on hips, disapproving with every line of his body.

Sherlock waited. He'd taken all the risks tonight. Time for John to have his turn.

John sighed, letting one foot tap out his impatience. "Full marks for the dramatic exit," he said. "Now get upstairs before someone recognizes you." He paused. "You don't want to leave, Sherlock, and we both know it."

Sherlock scowled, but even he had to admit it was one of his less convincing ones. "Don't presume to know what I want, John," he said, stepping through the doorway regardless, fighting lips that wanted to smile. Possibly grin, and stupidly, at that. Hope wasn't lost, after all, and the shadow world seemed even less appealing than it had only moments before.

The door closed behind him. Behind _them_. They faced each other across the hallway, each dependent on their own bit of wall to keep them upright.

John smiled faintly. "I didn't presume. I deduced."

Sherlock's eyebrows attempted to mate with his hairline. "Do tell," he invited.

John jerked his head upwards. "The creaky step," he said, as if it explained it all, which it kind of did. Certainly enough for Sherlock to know he'd been rumbled. Because Sherlock had adamantly refused to let John repair that step, citing it as an early warning system. Therefore, Sherlock knew exactly which one it was, which meant he'd stepped on it quite deliberately, after which he'd fiddled with that damned ugly coat for quite long enough for John to follow him, even if he'd stopped to collect his cane and a cup of tea on the way.

Add it all together and John was pretty near certain that Sherlock hadn't really intended to leave. Or at least, hadn't _wanted _to leave. And mere seconds at staring at the vacant flat had been ample to convince John that, however angry he still was, however angry he had a right to be, it all paled into insignificance against the idea of Sherlock vanishing back into whatever mist he'd hidden himself in all this time.

"Am I right?" John asked, more hoarsely than he'd intended.

Sherlock favored him with a nod. "Possibly not quite as wrong as usual."

John sighed, slumping against the wall as tense muscles relaxed. "Damned ugly coat you've found yourself, there."

"I'm in disguise," Sherlock said haughtily, which is quite difficult to pull off in a damned ugly coat.

"You're an idiot," John responded, his lips quirking in a suspicious manner. "Especially if you seriously imagine I'd let you swish off on me."

"Swish?" Sherlock repeated, in tones of outrage totally ruined by the fact that his eyes had suddenly remembered how to sparkle.

"Yeah, maybe not in_ that_ coat," John conceded. He tiled his head, considering. "Swan?" he offered eventually, grinning openly now. "Suits your neck," he added, by way of an explanation.

"You get to storm," Sherlock complained, his own mouth twitching. "Why don't I qualify for storm? Or swagger at least?"

John considered him appraisingly for a moment, then shook his head. "You don't have the hips for storming, Sherlock. Or rather, you've got too _much_ hip. Connected to a skinny arse which you really ought to get upstairs before Mrs Hudson calls an exorcist."

-XXX-

The step creaked again. Twice. Mrs Hudson heard it through the softly bantering voices. Her own door creaked as she leaned against it, tears slipping down her cheeks to dampen the old wood. She had her boys back. Both of them.

_I could fluff on for another chapter, at least. Your choice. Thank you for reading, whoever and wherever you are._


	7. Chapter 7

_I'd expected this to be finished now but it just keeps growing on me, hope that's OK. Onwards, then. _

A soft peal of laughter bounced back from the narrow walls of the staircase. John's laugh, unexpectedly missed, remarkably welcome, working its tendrils through the skin of Sherlock's scalp and into his mind, soothing, cleansing, repairing the injuries done in his absence. The old claim that laughter heals was thus proved correct, further evidence that old sayings survived the march of ages due to the truths they contained.

"See," John explained. "You stepped _over _it this time."

Hence the laughter, Sherlock supposed, although it felt vaguely offensive that John should feel the need to justify something so appropriate, so very necessary. Sherlock looked down at his feet, noting that he had indeed extended his stride to miss the tortured piece of carpentry which never failed to protest any weight placed on it. Therefore, John wasn't explaining the laughter itself, he was proving the truth of his deduction.

A flawed deduction, of course, but he might forbear to point that out, just this once.

Sherlock hadn't intentionally missed the step, nor had he intentionally trod on it on the way down. He'd developed the habit of avoiding to creaking step from countless attempts not to disturb Mrs Hudson. The tension associated with believing himself banished had disrupted the habit. There might be emotional significance to be drawn from both, but deduction was a science, and science mustn't be emotional.

Then again, John's deductions were often right for the wrong reasons. The promptings of the subconscious should not be underestimated, and should probably be given more credit in future, given how unlikely it was that Sherlock would have bent his pride enough to intentionally coax John after him. Not right away, at least.

What did it matter where the impulse came from, so long as it achieved the desired result? John had followed him, John had called him back. John would therefore be required to extend forgiveness for whatever he deemed necessary to forgive, and all would be well.

Somewhere in the Mind Palace, a room full of elaborate schemes locked itself, pending purge, after which Sherlock would never be troubled by the lengths he'd have gone to win John back into his life.

Just as well, really. Sherlock might have a history of dependence, but desperation wasn't his style, not at all. At least, not that he remembered.

-XXX-

John looked down at his newly-returned friend. A novelty, that, looking down at Sherlock. The genius madman looked different from this perspective. Smaller. Frailer.

Probably the effect of being wrapped in something several sizes too large, and the wrong color too boot. John hated that coat, too much like a shroud, if you asked him, which no one would, given his total and unlamented absence of fashion sense.

"Lose the disguise, would you?" John said irritably. It was symbolic, he decided. A symbol of Sherlock's…err…undeath, yeah, that'd do - and it wasn't crossing the threshold. So there.

"Disguise?" Sherlock repeated, squinting up at - was it premature to resume calling John his friend? Surely neither of them had ever traversed this staircase quite so slowly before. There wasn't even the excuse of checking over his shoulder for pursuit. _That_ habit appeared to have ceased at the doorway. Ludicrous, really, given how many enemies had broached the sanctity of 221B – though none, now that he thought of it, while John was present. Therefore he was most likely responding to the prompting of his subconscious, as per his recent resolve to pay more attention to those very promptings. That it provided further incentive for keeping John permanently at hand in the future was an unexpected bonus.

"Coat," John elaborated, his entire face wrinkling with distaste. "The ugly one. You're still wearing it."

Ah yes. Sherlock marveled at the caliber of distraction which could allow him to ignore the creep of the unnatural fibres against his skin. He shrugged the admittedly ugly garment free and discarded it, observing its flight down the stairwell with an upwelling of content.

John turned at the doorway to the flat, mouth and eyes crinkling with amusement as he watched the coat skitter across the floor, to land with a thump against the front door.

"Now Mrs Hudson will think we've got a poltergeist," John noted placidly, well content with Sherlock's willingness to abandon the object of his irrationality, which would find its way to the nearest dumpster next time John left the building.

Sherlock crossed his arms. "Mrs Hudson is far too sensible for such fancies."

"Then again, I wouldn't be surprised to see that thing wiggle off by itself," John concluded with a grin, opening the door with what was undeniably a flourish.

Sherlock ignored the comment, quite pointedly. Privately he couldn't help but agree. He only hoped he hadn't contracted fleas from the wretched thing. Predictably, his skin began to itch. Equally predictably, he ignored it. The demands of the body were annoying. And boring. And irrelevant. Except that he was damnably thirsty. Dry mouth, dry throat, likely the effect of too much emotion – repressed or otherwise – in too short a time period. Fortunately, teabags were relatively non-perishable, and he was sure he'd seen the jug still on the bench.

"Been dumpster diving again, have you Sherlock?" John teased, stepping aside as Sherlock swept regally through the door, "Apart from the ugly, it was at least two sizes too large for you."

Sherlock sniffed, a graceful flare of his aristocratic nostrils. "As you very well know, I need to have coats tailored to suit both my height and my…..width."

"Lack of," John offered, closing the door behind them.

"And I was hardly in a position to commission a new coat, was I?" Sherlock continued, striding onwards with his armchair in mind. And tea. John's tea always tasted better than his own. He supposed it was too much to hope for biscuits. That takeaway Chinese meal might be an option again, though.

Except that John's footsteps had ceased to echo his own, and their absence itched worse than the coat ever had. Sherlock spun on his heel, to see John leaning against the doorframe, all traces of humor fled.

"Where were you, Sherlock?" John asked quietly. "Where have you been?"

Sherlock flicked a hand dismissively. "Unimportant."

"I see." John pushed himself off the door and stalked into the kitchen. "OK," he added. "Fine, then."

"John," Sherlock said, in his best superior tone, which felt necessary given that he appeared to be following at John's heels like a well-trained puppy. "What does it matter where I've been, now I'm back? Unless you decide to evict me again, in which case it becomes irrelevant, to you at least."

John seized the kettle and took it to the sink, presenting Sherlock with an uninterrupted view of beige jumper. "Don't know what I was thinking, expecting anything other than enigmatic," he told the water as it flowed out of the tap.

Sherlock followed with his eyes as the jug rattled onto the base, a few errant drops of water splashing from the spout, noting that it took John two attempts to align it correctly.

"I'm making tea," John announced, somewhat unnecessarily. "Do you want a cup? Only I don't think there's any milk. Didn't look, really. If there was, it'd probably have hair by now."

The disjointed sentences, the failed attempt at humor, more than anything else the way John had begun to favor his leg, made Sherlock curse his unruly tongue, possibly for the first time in his adult life. Hadn't he already accepted that John was owed an explanation?

Sherlock stepped closer, cautiously, wondering if he was about to reacquaint himself with that right hook. "If I told you where I'd been," he began. "If I told you where I'd be returning to, it would likely influence your decision as to whether you'd accept me back as….as your flatmate."

John leaned back against the sink, tapping a foot against the faded linoleum. The kettle proved another old proverb true by refusing to boil.

Sherlock extended a hand, laid it briefly on John's arm, soaking up the feeling of the soft wool. "As your friend," he corrected himself, letting the arm drop back to his side.

John almost smiled. Encouraged, Sherlock continued, words tumbling over themselves in his eagerness to get them out. "Given your self-sacrificing nature, you might pretend forgiveness if you had concerns about where I'd go. Conversely, if you considered it somehow beneficial to me, you'd encourage me to leave." He paused, the words now not so eager to flow. "You were angry at me for what you perceived as manipulating you, perhaps deservedly so. I'm trying not to repeat the error."

The jug chose that moment to shrill. "Tea," John repeated, more firmly. "_I_ need one, failing anything stronger being handy, that is. And you're having one too. I don't suppose you can remember the last time you ate, but tea'll do to begin with."

The abrupt switch from defensive to caring somehow caused a weight to lodge within Sherlock's ribcage. Beneath its weight, he sank into one of the kitchen chairs, watching John's every moment with something akin to hunger as the other man rummaged through the cupboards with renewed energy.

When he managed to force his eyes to move, they fell squarely on his erstwhile icepack sitting neglected on the table, defrosting with the occasional crinkle of plastic in a bowl which Sherlock now recognised as the one John habitually used for mixing pancakes. He wondered whether he should mention the fact, then decided that as John had chosen the bowl, he'd no one to blame but himself.

John emerged from his foraging with teabags, sugar and a tiny carton of long-life milk, a find worthy of the accompanying cry of triumph. "God Bless Mrs Hudson," he declared.

"Indeed," Sherlock agreed, somewhat bemused, as John turned to place his finds onto the kitchen table, only to be confronted with the soggy mess of defrosting cartilage, topped by a particularly hairy earlobe.

There was an interval during which John eyed the bowl with a glare which should have incinerated it on the spot, with Sherlock observing intently in case it chose to oblige. After which, no doubt in response to another prod from the subconscious, Sherlock swept the offending item up, bowl and all, and deposited it in the freezer.

John's forehead crinkled in what might be approval, given the co-ordinating activity in the corners of his mouth. "That's only a temporary fix, y'know," he said, trying for ominous. "They have to go. _And_ you can sterilize the bowl."

Two pairs of eyes met across the table, asking questions neither man would bend to ask aloud.

"I imagine that depends on whether you develop an urge for pancakes before I need freezer space," Sherlock commented, one eyebrow arching in challenge.

John nodded briskly, mentally gathering up the gauntlet. "A matter of who cracks first," he agreed. "And no avoiding it by buying another bowl, either."

The working-out of the challenge held no importance in comparison to the acknowledgement that both men would be present for the outcome. As an argument, it was a complete failure. As a tacit exchange of reassurances, an unqualified success.

Tea was consumed amid quiet content. Facing each across a battered table, eyes not quite meeting between the rise and fall of teacups, wounds healed, silently if not seamlessly. Scars would remain, but scars, given the right perspective, were a sign of survival, of obstacles overcome.

A bowl of ears, Sherlock reflected, might well be the most unique 'welcome home' either man had ever experienced. His eyes stung as fiercely as when he'd thought himself banished.

A good sting, this time, and he'd not know there was such a thing, before.

_Thank you for reading. I give up on predicting how much more there will be, but it can only get fluffier._


	8. Chapter 8

_Here is the next bit, where things finally get back on track. Thank you to everyone who's stuck with this fic in spite of the delays._

As John turned to pull the door to Baker Street closed behind him, a splinter of light fell across the floor, drawing his eyes upward. In the gap between door and wall, Mrs Hudson hovered. John met her eyes with his, smiling so widely his face ached, receiving a smile in return that unearthed the beauty lurking beneath the ravages of time.

"Go on up," John urged, and set off into the night with a bounce in both feet and a limp in neither.

The sun had still been visible when he'd entered the flat, but it had dipped below the horizon now, yielding the stage to the moon, which in turn had chosen to sulk behind scattered clouds, leaving the stars to twinkle a losing battle against light pollution. Here, below as above, nature was in retreat, the darkness smudged by flickering streetlights, speared by passing headlights, punctuated by blurred neon and spitted by the green-amber-red of traffic lights.

As John's feet rang on the paving, London woke. _ Their_ London, surging forth to flood his senses, a heady and welcome onrush after an eon where none of it had seemed to matter. Stale smoke filled his lungs, welcomed there, the cleanest scent wafting from the smeared alleyways. Desperation leached almost visibly from every street corner, where the young things gathered, painted and draped in their finest. Seeing, hearing, breathing it all in, John drifted through a city full again because the one who'd left it empty had come home to fill the gaping spaces. Here, as much as inside the door now clicking shut behind him, John was home.

They could have called for their food, of course they could. But John said he'd collect it and Sherlock didn't argue, which might not mean that he was hungry, but certainly meant he understood, and probably needed this breathing space just as badly as John did. Only he'd not get it, not with Mrs Hudson on her way up. John grinned to himself. Sherlock could bitch all he liked later, he'd love it.

Sherlock. Back in Baker Street. Alive. The streetlights wavered. The pavement chose the same moment to undulate beneath his feet. John found a handy lamppost to lean against until it and his knees remembered their respective roles and started performing them again.

Sherlock, whose funeral he'd attended, whose grave he'd wept over. Alive and currently living in Baker Street. Sherlock _was_ alive. They were wrong, the doctors and psychiatrists and well-meaning acquaintances. Sherlock was dead, they'd said, in every tone from soothing to exasperated, and when John tried to believe it, and couldn't, they said it was denial. But Sherlock was upstairs now. Mrs Hudson would go up and find him, and she'd be there to confirm it when John returned, even….even if Sherlock vanished again. So they were wrong, all of them, and John was right, all along. Weren't they? Wasn't he?

Or had he gone up those stairs, hours or an instant ago, sank into his old armchair and fallen asleep, and everything after was the oddest and best of dreams?

Except….No. John ran his thumb over his knuckles, grounding himself in the protest of broken skin. No, he wasn't dreaming. Sherlock was alive, likely having the breath squeezed out of him by Mrs Hudson and loving it, whatever he might say to the contrary, or how often. John was going to buy them dinner, maybe even lay in something for breakfast as well, and Sherlock would damned well be there to eat it.

-XXX-

The sounds of Baker Street swirled around Sherlock as the water swirled around his feet, the steady spray washing away more than surface grime. Over the protests of the aged boiler, he could hear the slow grind of the fridge going through its cycle, and faintly, above it all, the sporadic roar of traffic winding its way through from the street. Comforting sounds, promising acceptance, offering refuge if not an assurance of safety. All that was lacking was the mixed bag of sounds which accompanied one John Watson.

Sherlock had never imagined he'd miss all those petty irritants which had drawn him repeatedly from even the furthest corridors of the Mind Palace. The exasperated huffs, the stamping feet, the arrhythmic clack of keys which accompanied the 'hunt and peck' school of typing. But missed them he had. And he would no longer. He was home, and so was John.

A much disarrayed home, admittedly. While the living-room had the rigidly preserved feel of a museum, the rest of the flat had fared differently. A rapid search of his old bedroom revealed the majority of his wardrobe packed in neatly stacked and labeled cardboard boxes. His bed was stripped, collapsed into its components, the mattress gone and various pieces of frame propped against the wall. But behind the door, bringing a lump to this throat that the sight of his belongings packed for disposal hadn't, was his dressing gown, still on its hook.

It hung on the back of the bathroom door now, with disinterred night clothes resting on the vanity, adding the odor of mothballs to the mundane scent of shampoo. John's shampoo, as it happened, a half-used bottle filched from the plastic bag into which the contents of the bathroom cabinet had evidently been emptied, presumably waiting for John to collect them. Of his own products there was no trace – Sherlock could only assume they were already contributing to the landfill problem. No matter. There was an odd, strangely illicit satisfaction in having the scent normally associated with John permeating his own hair. A substitute for the real thing, perhaps. An olfactory security blanket.

Mrs Hudson had surprisingly skipped the expected interval of disbelief and gone straight to the hugging, Sherlock mused as he washed his hair for the third time. A hug from Mrs Hudson was the very definition of being hugged. Contrary to what the majority of his acquaintances persisted in believing, Sherlock did not find the experience distasteful. Merely, he preferred to avoid the casual touch of people he disliked or distrusted. Unless a case required it, of course.

Sherlock sighed as he rinsed the suds from his scalp, drawing a narcissistic pleasure from the feeling of clean hair, clean skin, clean clothes and a cleaner soul.

Mrs Hudson had hugged him, warm and welcoming, with no hint of accusation for the deception he'd practiced. She'd shown no inclination to leave, either. He'd had to go to the lengths of shedding clothing before she'd made a fluttering, tutting departure. At the other end of the spectrum, John had punched him, mended the damage, and then gladly departed on an errand which could have just as easily been accomplished by raising the phone or logging onto the internet.

A snapshot of both their natures. One warmly forgiving, one warily accepting. A warning of reparations to come. Sherlock turned off the water, realised he'd forgotten to unearth a towel, and dripped his way back to the ruins of his bedroom.

-XXX-

John shifted the carrier bags from one hand to the other as he turned his steps back to Baker Street, wincing as the stingy plastic handles dug into his palms. He'd ducked into a convenience store while waiting for dinner to be made up, so there was milk and bread as well. Just in case.

John looked down at the multiple bags of takeaway and admitted to himself that he might have over-ordered, just a tad. But Sherlock obviously hadn't been eating well, having managed to become even thinner than before, and the expense didn't matter because once Mycroft sorted out Sherlock's legally dead status he could cough up his share of the back-rent. It was not, therefore, any attempt at a celebratory reunion dinner, regardless of what Sherlock's eyebrows might choose to imply. Besides, it'd earned them complimentary prawn crackers.

John hesitated as the lights in the liquor shop caught his eye. Wine with dinner? He could practically see pale nostrils flaring - but with amusement or distaste, that was the question. He paused, frowning as he considered. There _was_ precedent. They did occasionally share a bottle after a particularly grueling case – and surely the Case of the Resurrected Detective qualified - or as a peace offering when one had particularly offended the other. Sherlock might choose to interpret it as an apology for the punch though, which it most emphatically wasn't. Well deserved, that had been.

John shook the feeling back into his hand, ran his thumb absently over the ragged knuckles again, and decided it wouldn't hurt to look. He emerged shortly afterwards with a bottle of the light red which had been Sherlock's contribution when they'd hosted Christmas drinks, nestled in its own carrier bag. This one boasted string handles - the better to insert fibers into the irritation caused by the plastic. Hooray for progress.

Mrs Hudson was lurking just inside the door to 221B; barely letting him put his bags down before launching her not inconsiderable weight into his arms. Frail she might look, but Baker Street had its own Iron Lady, and it wasn't just from the metaphorical steel in her spine, or even the actual steel in her hip. John hugged back with enthusiasm, feeling tears prickle behind his eyelids. They drew apart just far enough to see each other's face, laughing wryly at identical tear tracks.

"Threw me out so he could shower, cheeky young sod," Mrs Hudson said, delight warring with a shared concern which they'd probably never voice, in the interests of sanity.

"I'll go right up," John assured her. With a last hug, Mrs Hudson disappeared back into her own lair. John shook his head at himself, at them both, wondering wryly how long it would be before either of them trusted Sherlock to still be there if they took their eyes off him. He took a fresh grip on the bags and stalked up the stairway, leaning particularly heavily on the creaky step, all but daring the flat to be empty.

-XXX-

As the inner door crashed against the wall, John was treated to the reassuring sight of Sherlock blinking up at him from the pile he'd made of himself in the corner of the sofa. Damp hair fell onto the collar of his old blue dressing gown, which neither John nor Mrs Hudson could ever bring themselves to discard. A faded T-shirt and striped pyjamas peeked from beneath the robe, both showing creases from storage. No doubt there was a blizzard of emptied boxes in Sherlock's bedroom.

"You sent her up," Sherlock noted, pout not far from the surface. "Not the best thing for her vaunted nerves, I'd have thought."

"The only nerves she's got are nerves of steel," John retorted. "Well, steel-wool, perhaps." He shrugged. "Besides, I kind of assumed she knew already."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. John returned his gaze coolly. Maybe there'd been a trace of spite in his voice, but too bloody bad. Sherlock had confided in Molly, for God's sakes, and somewhere on his walk John had accepted that Mycroft must have been keeping Sherlock's secret too, so why not Mrs Hudson as well? It didn't matter anyway.

Actually, it really didn't, John realised, with a hint of surprise. He wasn't just trying to convince himself. It wasn't the_ Who_ that bothered him anymore. As for the _How_, well, that would probably beguile a boring evening at some point, but John couldn't find a damn to give, let alone anything stronger. It was the _Why_ that burnt a hole in whatever part of his brain emotion resided – and more specifically the _Why not me?_

Sherlock tapped the steeple of his fingers against his chin. "Because she heard the fracas up here and didn't call the police? Reasonable deduction, John. I'm impressed."

John opened his mouth and thought better of it. The bags hadn't gotten any lighter and the milk needed to go into the fridge. Milk for his morning cup of tea, because it was too late to go back to Harry's, and he at least, John thought smugly, had a bed made up and waiting for him.

Sherlock unwound himself and followed John into the kitchen. "Let me," he said curtly, removing the carton of milk from John's hand and placing it in the fridge himself. On the right shelf, even.

It was a sufficient departure from character that John merely watched, somewhat dumbly, which probably didn't matter since Sherlock likely considered it his habitual expression.

"I've no objection to blood, John," Sherlock explained. "But preferably not in my food. Your knuckles are bleeding. What on Earth were you doing to yourself?"

John transferred his gaze to his hand, feeling the flush rising to his cheeks as he took himself and his knuckles to the sink. "It's nothing," he mumbled. And it wasn't, much. The cold water stilled the seepage almost immediately.

"John?" Sherlock persisted. Sherlock was nothing if not persistent. When it suited him. And no doubt it currently suited him to enact this bizarre role reversal which was doing strange things to John's already scrambled brain. Probably set on throwing him off whatever balance the walk in the night air had provided.

"Please tell me you didn't involve yourself in random fisticuffs between here and the takeaway?"

"Fisticuffs?" John repeated. "Who says fisticuffs anymore? But no, I didn't. C'mon, let's eat before it gets cold."

Sherlock positioned himself firmly between John and the food, hip hooked fashionably on the table, arms crossed, foot tapping. As a juvenile method of communicating _I can wait all day_, it had no peer. John decided not to dignify it by an attempt to maneuver around the obstacle. Instead, he crossed his own arms and leaned back against the sink, matching glare for glare until it became ridiculous enough that surrender had more dignity than the contest.

"I was using it as a bloody worry stone, OK," John snapped. "To remind myself I wasn't imagining it all, or dreaming, or going the rest of the way insane."

"Oh," Sherlock said softly. His pose collapsed, hands falling to steady himself on the table, which itself had become less a theatrical prop and more a means of support. "And sending Mrs Hudson up, too. To ensure my presence on your return, or refute it. I see."

His voice held too much understanding, too much _sympathy_, and nothing remotely approaching apology.

John eyed him with hostility untempered by anything softer. "You staged a very convincing death, Sherlock. Which am I more likely to be imagining? That," he waved an arm, encompassing the man before him, the flat itself, and possibly the world in general. "Or this?" And his finger came perilously close to poking a hole in the angular chest. "I thought you were _dead_, Sherlock."

"You didn't," Sherlock countered, with the insufferable smugness John really should be used to by now, but instead found him longing to apply a matching bruise to Sherlock's other cheek. "That's what the whole denial issue was, surely?"

John's breath hissed between his teeth. Sherlock could feel the edges of it ghosting against his chin.

"I saw you fall, Sherlock. No, I saw you bloody_ jump_. I saw you covered in blood. I'm a God-damned _doctor_, Sherlock. I know real blood when I see it, and when I can't find a pulse, it's because there _isn't _one."

Sherlock's arms extended, one coming to rest on each of John's shoulders, closing gently, moving in something midway between massage and shake. "It _was_ blood," he agreed, face grave, voice intense. "But it wasn't_ my_ blood. Oh, it was human; I made sure of that, in case you got it into your head to get a sample, but…."

John's eyebrows rose. "Why would I…?"

Sherlock waved an impatient hand. John was quite relieved to note the other followed it. His shoulders felt much lighter.

"Damn it, John, don't look so surprised," Sherlock huffed, flinging both arms out in exasperation. Stepping back as he did so, which apparently freed up more oxygen, or so John's lungs assured him as breathing suddenly became much less of an effort. "I've never shown anything but respect for your medical skills," Sherlock continued, working up to what showed all the signs of becoming a rant. "Nor your determination. You fought your way through a veritable minefield of distractions to check my pulse. No more than I'd expected or I'd not have gone to the bother of stopping it. So why not my blood as well? You might have been trying to prove Moriarty drugged me or some such notion, so that you could at least clear my name postmortem."

John watched the hypnotically waving arms, hearing the words but not really listening, though they'd probably return to puzzle him later. Sherlock was in full flight, he thought dispassionately. Not a rant after all. This was Reveal mode. This was where John was supposed to start with the Amazings, the Extraordinaries.

"How?" John began, an automatic reaction, just as Sherlock expected. But then. "No." John shook his head. "No, I don't want to know how you did it. It'll be clever and overly complicated, and frankly I don't give a fat rat's arse."

Sherlock hadn't quite gotten his mouth closed, either from being stopped in his tracks or by the very inventive colloquialism. Quite possibly both. He attended to his gaping jaw and waited, head tipped to one side, eyes brightly enquiring.

As though, John told himself sourly, he'd encountered a new type of cigarette ash.

"What I really want to know," John said, leaning forward again. "Is_ why_? Why did you have to…..and why like that? Why did you do it?"

Sherlock retreated back to his perch on the table, where he eyed John over steepled fingers. "Finish the question," he said.

John blinked. "You …What?"

Sherlock leaned forward, close enough that John could feel the flutter of breath against his forehead. John in turn leaned back, ribs making solid contact with the edge of the sink.

"Finish the question," Sherlock repeated, using the overly casual tone which usually meant he was about to be an insufferable smartarse. "Ask what you really want to know, John. Ask what you'd ask if you weren't so damned self-effacing."

To Sherlock's annoyance, John promptly assumed the innocent imbecile face, as if he'd not the slightest notion what Sherlock meant. But he must, because he _hadn't _finished, Sherlock thought stubbornly. There were words missing. Two words. _To me._ _Why'd you do it to me?_

But John hadn't asked that, even though it was what he really needed to know. As if he truly thought he wasn't important enough to occupy a space in the grand scheme. As if he thought he wasn't the only - well, the most important - reason it had happened in the first place.

As though he wasn't the only person on whose behalf Sherlock would ever erase himself.

Unless that was exactly what he _did_ think, however ludicrous.

Sherlock relented enough to answer, but of course he answered the real question. The only question, the only answer, which really mattered.

"I didn't do it _to_ you, John," Sherlock said intensely. "I did it _for_ you."

John gave a wonderful impression of someone with a mouthful of goldfish. Or possibly of the goldfish itself. "For _me_?" he repeated, as one does when presented with a gift – one they aren't very keen on.

"Oh, for the others too," Sherlock conceded. "For Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade. But mostly for you." He swallowed heavily. Uncomfortably. This was harder than merely laying out the steps of the deductive process. This was, quite frankly, where he lacked the vocabulary.

So he used John's instead.

"To protect you. Isn't that what you said, John? Friends protect you?"

John watched him intently for a few moments. Just watching. Sherlock tried not to fidget. It was unnerving, seeing John's face without a smile for such a long stretch of time.

Within John's mind, in the space reserved for playback of Sherlock's most, well, Sherlockian moments, words from earlier that evening resounded. _"A resounding success. You're alive, aren't you?"_

Twisted Sherlockian logic or not, it, rational or not, it appeared the mad genius really _had_ done this for him. Sherlock had measured his own life against John's and considered his the more worthy of preservation. Because vanishing as he had, erasing himself as he had, was surely death in every way except physical for someone like Sherlock. It was humbling, and wonderful, and frightening beyond imagining. John didn't agree, would never agree, be he couldn't bring himself to belittle the sacrifice, and he could no longer feel anything beyond gratitude that his friend had found a way to both give his life and retain it.

"Of course, that _would_ be the only time you've ever listened to me," John muttered finally. "Now for the second and final time, let's eat."

"I noticed you brought wine, too," Sherlock noted. "I must admit I'd hoped you would."

It was no surprise that he'd seized the diversion. They'd gone as far towards sentiment as either of them was comfortable with, perhaps further. There was, however, an odd tone to his voice, which in anyone else John would have described as shy, and had immediately after stirred himself to rummage through the cupboards for wineglasses. John watched for a second's worth of bemusement before dumping the boxes of Chinese food onto the coffee table and ambling to the kitchen in search of plates. Apparently it was a celebration, after all. He might even drag out the chopsticks.

The argument wasn't over. Might never be over. But there was plenty of time to explain to Sherlock exactly why throwing himself off the damned building had been a bloody ridiculous idea, miraculous life-saving back-up plan or not. But right now, there was food, and wine, and a best friend to share it with.

It was enough. It was almost more than enough.

It'd do for now at least.

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><p><em>I have a possibly overfluffy epilogue in mind, but that's basically it. Thanks for reading.<em>


	9. Chapter 9

_Sorry, I was wrong, there's another chapter. Partly a deliberate decision as the portions I will be moving to the final chapter might be considered preslash, and I wanted to give you all the option of finishing at this chapter if that isn't your reading preference. Hope you enjoy. Thank you all for reading, especially those who have taken the time to review._

* * *

><p>John picked at the food remaining on his plate, his appetite either subdued or lost. At the other end of the couch, Sherlock wielded chopsticks with his usual grace, not even a splatter of sauce on his dressing gown as he worked his way through a far-from-usual second helping. John sighed. There could be several reasons behind the increased appetite, but he very much suspected that Sherlock was simply attempting to appease him, and it felt <em>wrong <em>right down to his marrow.

This meal, the wine souring on his tongue, it was meant to be a healing, not a penance. John couldn't decide whether to laugh or throw something – possibly another punch. Only he was every bit as bad himself, biting his lip against all that remained unasked for fear of sending Sherlock into a sulk from which he might emerge only to merge back into the shadows.

He'd have to do it without that Godawful coat though. If Sherlock wanted it back he'd have to dig through the skips behind the Chinese John had bought the food from, and he'd have to do it soon because they were being emptied tomorrow. Petty victories were sweet when dealing with a Holmes.

John placed his bowl on the coffee table, having reluctantly concluded that he really could not eat any more. "I ordered a bit much, didn't I?" he asked, leaning back against the couch with a light groan.

"You did," Sherlock agreed, laying his own bowl down with unconcealed relief. His gaze roved across the array of containers still spread across the table, none of them empty in spite of both their best efforts. "Either you're determined to restore all my lost weight with one meal, or you were planning on leftovers for breakfast."

Breakfast. Sherlock might not eat breakfast, but he was planning for it. John's stomach did an absurd little happy dance around all the food he'd eaten. Apparently his subconscious hadn't gotten the news that Sherlock wouldn't vanish whenever he turned his back, and would continue to be pleasantly surprised whenever it was proved wrong.

"Lunch," John corrected. "I bought bread while I was waiting for the order, so there'll be toast for breakfast."

Sherlock glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. "You got milk as well," he observed.

John draped himself over the opposite arm of the couch. "Milk, too," he agreed. "For tea. It's nowhere near the use-by date, and completely uncontaminated, so if it's undrinkable by morning I'll know who to blame." It was damned nearly his usual banter, John congratulated himself.

Sherlock gave him a slightly crossed-eyed sneer, due to having to compose it over such a short distance. John returned his gaze with a hint of a smile. Neither made a move to rise from the couch, lacking the need for distance, or perhaps actively rejecting it. Proximity might make up for the quality of the silence, which lacked its usual serenity and might grow claws instead if either said the wrong thing, made the wrong move.

It was bloody ridiculous.

"Jam?" Sherlock prompted, leaning forward and idly sorting through the debris on the table. He found a lid and snapped it onto one of the containers.

Jam. Sherlock tidying up. It had just gone from ridiculous to annoying, and was making headway towards intolerable.

And it was utterly unforgiveable, John told himself firmly, for a soldier to be this meek. Into the fray, then.

"Sherlock," he said firmly. "You've eaten more this evening than you usually would in a day. I'll be lucky to get lunch into you tomorrow, let alone breakfast. So why the hell are you prattling about jam?"

Sherlock ceased the aimless shuffling and turned to John with a strangely closed off face, evidently deciding whether to answer. "Jam," he said stiffly, after a period during which John found the lids for the remaining takeaway. "Has longevity."

John took the usual moment or three to work his way through his limited understanding of the workings of his friend's mind, with the sound of Sherlock stacking plastic containers beating out the seconds. He'd bought takeaway food, a bottle of wine. Milk and bread. Common thread - Perishables. Oh…Surely not?….really? "Reassurance by use-by date?" he concluded incredulously.

Sherlock sniffed, but didn't deny it. John chuckled and regretted it as Sherlock rose abruptly from the couch, spine stiff with outrage. "No, don't go," John protested, grabbing Sherlock's arm. "I'm not laughing at you, really I'm not…It's just….I hadn't gotten past being smug that you'd mentioned being here for a breakfast you weren't going to eat."

Sherlock looked at the firm brown hand wrapped around his forearm, feeling its warmth to a far greater degree than it could possibly generate, blinking against the annoying pressure behind his eyes.

"I'm not planning on leaving," John said softly. "No reason to, after all. Mrs Hudson's even made up my bed."

John had always been the braver of the two of them. It was good to know that hadn't changed.

Sherlock sank slowly back onto the couch in obedience to the gentle pressure on his arm, feeling oddly bereft when it dropped away. "Aren't you the favored one?" he grumbled. "She dismantled mine."

"I don't want _you_ to leave, either," John continued. This, Sherlock concluded, was the force which eroded mountains. Raindrops on granite. Gentle persistence, leading to inevitable defeat.

Sherlock exhaled heavily. "Odd how one can hear an incipient 'but' isn't it?"

"But," John obliged. "What I don't get …"

"Apart from the jam," Sherlock put in, because even crumbling mountains have to put up some form of resistance.

"Is," John continued doggedly, "How you could possibly think that throwing yourself off a building would protect me?"

"So we're back to that, are we?" Sherlock demanded.

"I wasn't aware that we'd left it," John countered. "We certainly aren't past it."

They glared at each other for what might only have been seconds, but were of the quality during which civilizations fell and were remade.

"I have said that it was necessary for your safety," Sherlock said, each pronouncing each syllable with precision, "which should be enough, if you trusted me as much as you purport to, but evidently isn't. And before you puff up any further, John, just think for a second – or however much longer a brain like yours requires - think, exactly what _you'd_ have done with sniper sights on Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade and…well, me in this scenario…and a choice between jumping or having them fire."

John tried to answer, but found he'd temporarily lost control of his jaw muscles.

"Exactly," Sherlock huffed, radiating bitter triumph. "You'd have jumped, too, and I very much doubt you'd have had the forethought or the resources to arrange a fake suicide rather than a real one. So get off your high horse, John, because it's doing very little for your stature."

John blinked at his friend, trying to control the twitch in his jaw. You could always rely on Sherlock for a clever insult, and as usual, he found it amusing rather than aggravating, even when bearing the brunt.

"That was quite witty," he acknowledged, letting the twitch have its way, feeling it grow into a twisted grin.

Sherlock catalogued the reluctant half-smile, which prompted the excessive amount of food he'd consumed to peel itself away from his ribs. Of course, logically and biologically, it couldn't have been there to begin with, but logic rarely stood a chance in John Watson's presence. Indeed, with John in the vicinity, emotion regularly defeated logic without raising a sweat, though the same could hardly be said for eyebrows.

"Not a patch on your inspired reference to obese rodent posteriors," Sherlock noted, the edges of his own mouth curling. "Though why you felt the need to bring Mycroft into this is beyond me."

Laughter had its way with the both of them. It felt good. Fuel to a dying fire. Rain in the grip of a drought.

"He's hardly a rat," John parried. "A weasel, at least."

"Ermine, then," Sherlock concluded decisively. "I'm sure he'd fancy wearing one, at least."

They hummed a verse of the national anthem together, until the accompanying visual set John off again, with Sherlock not far behind. Eventually, they regarded each other from their separate ends of the couch, facing each other with their backs against the arms, feet bumping occasionally as they sipped on thier wine while John caught Sherlock up on the events during his absence. They burst into fresh gales of mirth when John related the story about the woman with suspicious injuries, and sobered when John brushed over the lengths he'd gone to clear Sherlock's name.

Lost in thought, Sherlock started as John's foot connected with his with deliberation and considerable force.

"I cried over your grave, you prat," John grumbled.

Sherlock had the grace to look uncomfortable, even as he preened, just a little. "Yes, well, that was unfortunate," he acknowledged. "If unavoidable, and well, a bit gratifying."

John's eyes narrowed. "What, no lecture about the unseemly display of emotion?"

Sherlock blinked at him. "Tears are a biological reaction," he explained. "And I do flatter myself that you'd have found my loss somewhat upsetting. Talking to the headstone, now…" At which he broke off abruptly, biting his lip, only to make matters worse by stumbling into a retraction. "_That_ would have been a different matter, if it had happened…" He faltered beneath John's abruptly sharpened gaze, and then tried again. "Not that I'd know, of course."

"No, of course not," John agreed. "Except that you do." His eyes flickered over his flatmate's face, trying to extract something – anything – from the suddenly inscrutable visage. Deep inside him something quivered. The old 'gut feeling'. That intangible itch which had saved his skin more times than he could count.

"We should put the containers away," Sherlock suggested, shuffling and stacking far more loudly than necessary. "John? It's warm in here. You can't expect it to remain untainted if you leave it out."

"Then you can study the effect of ginger and garlic on the decomposition of meat," John muttered, flapping an impatient hand. For the first time, he felt a vague understanding of Sherlock's demands for people to be silent as he groped towards a conclusion. His mind was simply too busy to process anything external. Sherlock was being deliberately loud, too, which only confirmed that he was onto something. John drew his knees up, propped his elbows on them, dropped his face into the cradle of his palms, and thought. Remembered.

All those visits to Ella. All that time, with not just Ella losing patience with his inability to believe what he'd seen with his own eyes, felt beneath his own hand, until he'd even begun to question himself. But maybe, just maybe, he _hadn't_ been going slowly insane after all. They might have been real, every sighting he'd try to force aside as just another grief-induced hallucination. Or maybe just some of them. Any of them. _One_ of them, even.

Though not at the cemetery. He hadn't seen Sherlock there, at the place where a sighting would be most easily dismissed as a product of his mind. Yet that was the one Sherlock had all but confessed to. Irony, his friend and companion.

"I thought I was going mad," John mumbled. "I kept seeing your face. Through bus windows. On the Tube. A face in the crowds." Inside his mind, pieces snapped painfully into place. He wondered if this was how Sherlock felt each time he solved a case. Probably not, because Sherlock had never shown any signs of wanting to throw up. "I wasn't imagining it after all, was I?"

Sherlock abandoned the pretence of tidying. "I suppose I can never again accuse you of not being observant," he confirmed, his voice quiet and more hesitant than John could remember hearing before.

John's head emerged from behind its shelter, fingers dragging slowly along his cheeks. "It _was _you, then? Bus stops? Tube platforms? Amongst the smokers outside the hospital?"

Sherlock had curled up into himself as well, arms hugging his shins, pointed chin stabbing bony knees.

"Was it…" John hesitated. "Was it like a message? Was I supposed to hunt for you, or something?"

Sherlock shook his head, curls flying. "You weren't supposed to see me." A hand gestured aimlessly. "I didn't mean for you to see me."

John frowned at him. "Then…why?"

"Because…" Sherlock turned away, unable to meet the intent brown gaze. "I missed you," he told the walls. His voice echoed back, wrapping them in its folds, hitting John with the impact of a wave. A good wave, summer sea and sunshine and salt on his face, stinging his eyes.

John hurriedly inspected the walls, too. This was not a good time to look at each other's face. Especially the eyes, he imagined, given the current state of his own, through which he was currently blinking at a particularly empty-looking spot, under the window. Something missing, he thought vaguely…something important.

"I forgot," John exclaimed, leaping from the couch in a manner that would have done Sherlock proud, and with that cryptic statement Sherlock was left listening to John's feet thundering on the stairs.

They were thundering_ Up_, though, which was promising. But before he could formulate any theories, John was back, face more animated than Sherlock had seen it since the slur campaign began, even in his imagination.

"I kept it," John explained, thrusting something at Sherlock. Something substantial. Something wrapped in what looked like a towel which was falling away to reveal a leather case…A violin case.

John had seen that look before, particularly when he'd done that rotation through Maternity, handing a child to it mother. Sherlock pulled the violin and its bow from the case with eager fingers, counting the strings just like those mothers counted fingers and toes.

"You kept it," Sherlock echoed, tucking the satiny wood beneath his chin, bow leaping into his other hand.

"Couldn't handle the thought of it going to some school or the other like your science equipment," John confessed. The words fell on deaf ears, but he didn't mind a bit because the waterfall of music was another friend, sorely missed, welcomed back and welcoming in a way neither man would ever properly express.

John cleaned away the debris of their meal with a gentle refrain in his ears and a smile on his face. This now, this was home. He was where he belonged, and so was Sherlock.

Mind, if the daft bugger ever pulled a stunt like that again he'd break the damned violin over his head.

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><p><em>Thank you for reading. Hope you enjoyed.<em>


	10. Chapter 10

**Last chapter. Feel free to don slash goggles if that's your thing, though I've tried to leave it open for interpretation. Thanks for reading.**

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><p>John draped the dishtowel over a convenient door-handle and surveyed the flat with an approving eye. Everything was in its place – even if he'd had to make one for it - right down to the dark-haired, dressing-gowned figure blocking the light from the window, violin still tucked beneath his chin, lids drooping over moonlight eyes as he lost himself in reunion with another old friend. Notes wafted around the flat, reacquainting themselves with the dust-motes.<p>

The sight, the sound, the _feel_ of it. Safety with the scent of danger spicing the air. Home, with the call of the exotic trailing in the wake of that damned dressing gown. John shook his head, at himself, at the persistent shiver within crying warning that it couldn't all be real, as though the action alone could shake the doubts from his mind. This, exactly this, was what he'd mourned for all these months, helplessly, hopelessly, a vision so shining and precious that sometimes he had to wonder whether he'd painted the memories in more glorious colour than the original. Yet now, it seemed that the rose-tinted glasses through which he'd grieved for his lost friend had proved to be clear glass after all. Was it so surprising that he still couldn't trust the evidence of his senses?

John cleared his throat with a tad too much force, partly in an attempt to dislodge the lump, mostly because lurking silently while his senses gorged on the presence of his prodigal friend had to slightly pathetic, if not outright creepy.

Sherlock's eyes flickered fully open in response to the painfully contrived interruption. The violin music segued into something light, whimsical. Musical question marks, an audible compliment to the raised eyebrows.

John gestured vaguely towards the kitchen. "Cleaned up," he reported, shifting restlessly on his feet, tired to the bone and in no mood to examine why he wasn't tucked up in bed already.

Sherlock forbore to berate his friend on the redundancy of his statement. He could see the freshly washed teacups resting in the drainer, after all, and the visible lack of takeaways containers surely meant the leftovers were safely stowed in the fridge with 'fit for human consumption' labels affixed.

"You let them dispose of the stand," he noted instead, using a particularly vigorous sweep of the bow to indicate the emptiness below the windowsill.

John carefully repressed a smile, well aware this was all the thanks he was going to get for keeping the violin safe - and glad of it. Sherlock did thanks about as well as he did apologies, and the lack of one somehow erased the sting from the lack of the other. "Yeah, well, there's only so much I can hide under my bed," he replied. "Which, coincidentally, is where I'm off to right now."

Hence the point of the interruption, and the necessity of it jarred worse than the notes mangled by stiff fingers. Sherlock and his violin turned back to the window no further acknowledgement, but the volume of the music rose to follow John as he left the room.

Smiling at nothing in particular, or perhaps everything in general, John clumped up the stairs to his bedroom. Mrs Hudson, bless her, had not only made the bed up fresh, but had also laundered one of the pairs of pyjamas he'd never gotten around to packing and left it at the foot of his bed. Tempted as he was to throw them on and fall straight into bed, the lingering aroma from a tension filled evening prompted him to backtrack to the bathroom instead.

The music ratcheted up another notch as water cascaded from the shower head, and John whistled along with it, absurdly cheerful. It did his heart good, not to mention his ego, that Sherlock was as willing as himself to provide these little gestures of reassurance.

Even so, John found himself taking shameful comfort from the sting of water across his abused knuckles. He shook his head at himself, at them both. This pattern of seeking reassurance had to be broken before it became a habit, or he'd be finding excuses to punch Sherlock whenever his knuckles healed.

Not that he'd have to look very hard.

-XXX-

Sherlock frowned at the window, perturbed by the way his ears strained after the sound of footsteps until he'd assured himself that John had gone _up_ instead of _out_. What more would it take? They'd fought, he'd explained, John had given the appearance at least of being appeased. Though John might well – had, frequently – slam out in the midst of an argument, he was simply not deceptive enough to present a placid face only to sneak out in order to avoid further confrontation. And yet, Sherlock's gut clenched within him as those familiar footsteps sounded on the staircase again, relaxing only after he'd determined that John's destination was the bathroom, not the front door. Something Wagnerian made its way from the strings, reaching up to meet the clash of water against tile.

Still playing, Sherlock turned to glare around the offensively tidy flat, testament to the extended amount of time John had spent bustling about down here, while every clumsy movement underlined his state of exhaustion. Foolish behavior, the product of baseless fear and sentiment, hardly worth noting, except that Sherlock had just now found himself adjusting the volume of his playing to ensure John would still be able to hear it over the falling water.

Something would have to be done to restore the correct balance, Sherlock decided. Something striking enough to linger in both their psyches until this pointless anxiety had time to dissipate. The furrows cleared from his forehead as several possibilities presented themselves with surprising promptness. Sherlock allowed himself the duration of John's shower to sift them, growing more bemused by the second at how much mind-space he'd evidently dedicated to the mollification of John Watson.

-XXX-

The musical accompaniment ceased just after John turned off the taps, leaving him battling the impulse to confirm Sherlock's presence somewhere in the flat. It could have no positive outcome either way, he told himself firmly. Investigating the lack of noise might give Sherlock the notion that late night concertos were _reassuring, _thus ensuring John would never again know the joy of an uninterrupted night's sleep. He yawned mightily at the mere thought. No, not risking that.

Accordingly, John dragged his reluctant feet up the stairs towards his bedroom instead, trying to ignore the panicky little mind-whispers insisting that it wasn't just quiet downstairs, but dark too. No lights, no sound, no movement when he gave into the impulse to peer back over his shoulder. OK, so maybe Sherlock _had _gone off on some errand of this own, but what of it? He had every right to depart and return at the prompting of his own will and whim, but he _would_ return, surely tonight was proof of that.

Having finally extracted a thread of security from the tangled web of his thoughts, it was somewhat easier to keep his back to the staircase and his steps moving upwards. Appeased, if not at peace, John stumbled into his room, finally thinking of nothing except sinking onto the fresh sheets.

It came as an utter shock, therefore, to discover, not unlike one of The Three Bears, that _there was someone sleeping in his bed. _Or quite possibly feigning sleep in the hopes it would spare him eviction.

That much was easily fixed. No-one could _remain_ asleep through the frankly unmanly yelp with which John greeted the reality of another body beneath the duvet, nor the decidedly manly swearing which followed. John scrambled back out, still cursing, and glowered at the curly-haired figure blinking against the glare of the bedside lamp.

"But John," Sherlock said plaintively, when the tirade ground to a halt, John having exhausted his impressive vocabulary. "You _know _that my bed was dismantled. You were there when I mentioned it. I know you were. I checked."

"Yeah I was, but that doesn't mean…" John's mouth flapped a couple of times, totally against his will. "Sherlock, you hardly slept in your bed when you _had _one." Of course, right on the heels of that came a crystalline memory of what Sherlock wore – or _didn't_ wear – the times he'd actually used his bed, and the sheets Mrs Hudson had laundered didn't seem quite so fresh anymore. "Bloody hell, Sherlock," John exclaimed, momentarily diverted. "You'd better have pants on under_ my_ sheet."

For answer, Sherlock extended one leg from beneath the duvet, displaying a gravity defying length of pyjama clad shin terminating in elegant toes which might have been manicured, only John wasn't getting close enough to check.

"Right," John said decisively. "Now follow that with the rest of you, and take it all downstairs."

"But it's my first night back," Sherlock protested, in what was so very close to a whine that John was hard-pressed to keep the smile off his face. That would never do. If he showed weakness now, he was lost, and he'd never found the couch quite as comfortable as Sherlock did.

With admirable effort, because this was damned ridiculous after all, John summoned his best stern expression instead. The one which had proved its worth and protected evidence at many a crime scene, and fitted back onto his face with the ease of a lost glove.

"Not a chance, Sherlock," he said, carefully not meeting his flatmate's eyes, which he knew from experience would rival the very cutest lost puppy. "It's _my_ firstnight back too, don't forget."

"But John," Sherlock protested, pouting _up_ at him, which was distracting just from the novelty value.

John shook his head, partly in negation, partly to clear it. "_No_ Sherlock," he repeated, looking anywhere except at that pleading face, which was certainly as insincere as it was appealing. "You'll sleep for all of an hour before crashing into the living room and waking me up. You might as well just start there yourself. Damn it, Sherlock, you've always preferred the couch anyway."

Sherlock sighed, as though heavily put upon. "But John," he repeated patiently, "I wasn't _asking_ you to sleep downstairs. You must be aware this bed is big enough for two."

John gaped down at the curly haired maniac. He might even have boggled. The reality of what Sherlock was asking – no, expecting - finally landed squarely in his awareness, waving flags and sounding alarms in case he was planning to persist in ignoring the obvious. "Oh…No. God, no. And, in case that isn't clear enough, No Bloody Way on Earth."

Sherlock rolled onto his back, letting a single arm work its way from beneath the duvet in order to wave expansively at the other side of the bed. "But it _is_ very big," he pointed out. "Huge, in fact. Your bed, I mean. You'll hardly know I'm here."

John closed his eyes briefly, seeking his happy place, which ironically proved to be Baker Street.

"It's not as though you're using this side, John," Sherlock's voice intruded into whatever sanity John was groping to find. "Not as though it's _ever _been used, come to that."

"Not from lack of effort," John mumbled. He opened his eyes, noted that Goldilocks was still firmly in possession, and sighed at his inevitable defeat. He'd had such high hopes when he ordered that bed, and, contrary to popular belief, none of them had involved his flatmate being the first to share it.

"Very chivalrous of you," Sherlock approved, "Placing yourself between your putative bed-partner and the door, that is. Though I suppose it could equally be for ease of escape, given the usual caliber of your girlfriends. You might have been better to persist with the first one. The doctor - Susan, was it? She at least had some backbone."

"Sarah," John corrected absently. He let his face drop into his hands. "I do not believe my life," he muttered. "Particularly not today. Oh, the hell with it. I give up." He glared balefully at his recumbent flat-mate, received an angelic smile in return, and turned, dressing gown failing to sweep, to begin stamping his way back down the staircase.

"Now John, don't be foolish," Sherlock called out. "You surely aren't planning on going to the couch after all, are you?"

John froze midstep, as he'd done far too often tonight. He'd been perilously close to caving, but that parting shot was one too many. Sherlock, he concluded, should have quit while he was ahead. A sneaky smile crept onto John's face and stayed there as he considered his strategy. The game was decidedly On. This was mad. This was ridiculous. This was….normal, and God, he'd missed it.

"You bloody wish," John yelled back over his shoulder. "I'm just checking that I locked the door. Otherwise Mrs Hudson will pop in to make sure I haven't murdered you in your sleep and find….find…." No, he wouldn't risk saying it out loud. Walls had ears, particularly in this flat. If word of this got out, the Yarders would spend the next month arguing over whether it constituted cause for paying out the ongoing 'are they, aren't they?' pool which would no doubt resurrect when Sherlock did.

The room was in darkness when he returned, beyond the confused moonlight/streetlight slipping through the gaps in the blinds. Further illumination was hardly necessary, John thought sourly, given the glow of triumph shining from Sherlock's face.

"I don't suppose," John said, giving vent to his last forlorn hope. "That you're bluffing and you'll go down to the couch after all?"

Sherlock merely smiled at him, once more waving graciously at the empty side of the bed.

"This is most generous of you, John," Sherlock said, as John flung the duvet aside, confirmed – surreptitiously he hoped - the continuing presence of pants, and thumped with poor grace onto the mattress.

"I shall take care not to snore," Sherlock continued placidly. "And I'm assured I'm not a sheet thief."

John's head tried to leap over his shoulder, only to be foiled by a lack of owl-like neck. "Who?….No, I don't want to know. I really don't." The mattress creaked as he shifted around in an effort to get comfortable, ending precariously close to edge, having decided he'd rather roll off the bed entirely than risk rolling _on_ to Sherlock.

Sherlock chuckled softly in the dark. "For pity's sake, John, relax. I swear I'll not….what's the phrase? …jump you…in your sleep."

John blinked at the ceiling. There were far too many ways to interpret that statement for his poor overwhelmed brain to process. Or of course, Sherlock might just be making a last-ditch effort to retain the entire bed for himself. "I…er….um…."

"If you're feeling the need for an inoffensive – and might I add, quite unnecessary – let down, I usually find that _I'm flattered by the attention, but don't like you that way_ usually suffices," Sherlock offered helpfully. "Is that the concept you're trying to coerce from your overtaxed mind, John?"

John flirted with the engaging idea that it could hardly qualify as murder if he strangled his legally-dead flat-mate. Evidently the insufferable git was still trying to freak him out enough to retreat the couch. OK, fine, two could play.

"I wouldn't use that one," John said casually, "Because I prefer to keep as close to the truth as possible."

From the other side of the bed came the sound of harsh swallowing. A gulp, in fact. John grinned, possibly manically. Maniacally, even.

"It's not that I don't like you that way, Sherlock," John said, and he truly thought he could hear his flatmate - currently bedmate's - breathing hoarsen.

"I don't_ love_ you that way," John concluded. In the prickly silence that followed, he rolled back onto his side, substantially further from the edge. Sherlock's eyes bored into this back, likely rebounding off the shield of smug satisfaction radiating from every pore. It was so rare that he rendered Sherlock speechless. The war had been lost, but he'd snatched a victory in the final skirmish, and it was something to be savored. Oh, he'd have sweet dreams tonight.

"I don't love you that way either," Sherlock announced. "Just so there's no confusion."

"God forbid anyone's confused in 221B," John said agreeably. "G'night, Sherlock."

There was the sound of flouncing. John chuckled into the dark. "Sherlock?"

No answer.

"Welcome home."

Sherlock snored.

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><p><strong>That's all folks! Thank you so much for all the favorites, the alerts, and particularly the comments. It's been a lovely welcome to the fandom, and I will be back!<strong>


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